Harry the Hellhound
by CLM Narwhal
Summary: Harry is not a normal child, not even by the Wizarding World's standards. How will the Boy-Who-Lived live if he is raised like the dog that the Dursley's led him to believe he was? Creature!Harry.
1. Chapter 1

The natural world is filled with natural and unatural things. Beautiful flowers that are eye blindingly bright, irridescent, multicolored, or carnivorous. Animals that seem to be bits and pieces of other animals. Trees that grow tall enough to touch the sky and small enough to graze the shoulders of foxes. Liquid earth and solid clouds and gaseous plasma. Stars that moved entirely too fast to be as far away as they were in the sky. Sicknesses that brought one to the brink of death and then disappeared without a trace. Children who died, saw everlasting life, and then came back to this wretched plane, with knowledge they couldn't and shouldn't know. Devices that could wipe out millions and devices that could save billions being one and the same. The world was full of amazing, awesome things, both natural and unatural. Sometimes they were one and the same, impossible to destinguish from each other.

The Dursleys were of the mind that there was good and evil in natural and unatural, respectively. Natural was a man having a job, going to work in the morning. Natural was his woman staying at home, taking care of their son who was growing into a fine, respectable young man. Natural was a clean car, a tended garden, tea parties with the neightbors. Life was almost natural for the Dursleys. The Dursleys were normal.

Petunia Dursley's nephew, Harry Potter, was decidedly not natural.

Petunia bounced her bulbous baby boy Dudley, trying to calm his wailing enough that he could finally suckle at his bottle. He had been cranky nonstop for a few weeks, nearly a month. Could Petunia blame him? When Lily's child had been dropped off at her door step, they had moved furnature around to give space to the quiet child. He was room-mate to her Diddykins, and Dudley had been throwing a fuss ever since.

"Hush, widdle Diddykins," Petunia murmured to her baby as he continued to holler. "Mummy will make sure that your cousin is never favored over you." Her assurances didn't calm him down, but she didn't really expect him to understand her. He was only a year old, and since he didn't understand her, one year olds weren't ment to. She chose to ignore all the times when she had snapped at Harry and he had obeyed, however belatedly. Even now, the child was sitting in his corner, his fingers curled around his blanket that he had been delivered in, staying silent and watching them with those bright green eyes. It was almost like he hung on her every word, begging for attention. She felt her lip curl and turned away before that bright boy could see it.

It took more than a few minutes for her rocking and cooing could get Dudley to eat, but he did. She spent another few minutes rocking and cooing at him in congradulations for being a good little boy, before she was interupted at what sounded like a little 'humph' coming from the corner of the room. She bristled and turned, ready to scold the little boy harshly for daring to 'hurumph' at her and Dudley, but her emotions had such a 360 turn that she was left stunned, clutching her baby boy more securely to her bussom and stepping back in fear.

In place of her dearest nephew was a mongerel. About seven inches long from hind to shoulders, it had short, messy black fur and paws far too big for its body. It had a short tail that was moving slowly back and forth. It was thin, as if it wasn't fed much, and it's head was laying on it's crossed paws as if it was far too heavy to hold up. It's large ears were triangular and folded down like a Labrador. However, she could not scream for Vernon because of it's eyes. Those large, intellegent, luminescent green eyes were holding her in their grip as if she was paralyzed.

"Harry?" She whispered hesitently, hoping against hope that this dog just appeared out of no where instead of what she was thinking. But no, the beast's ears perked, and lifted it's head slightly. She had to try again. "Harry, if that's you, nod." The beast blinked slowly, and Petunia started to believe that this was just some dog in her house on her nephews blanket in the corner of her son's room. The beast slowly nodded it's big, dumb head, and Petunia's knees buckled. Any hope that was in her died, and any scream was silenced in her throat. Vernon was at work, and would not be home for hours yet.

The beast must have seen her fallen form as an invitation, because it struggled to it's feet and started plodding towards her, head down and staring up at her with those great eyes. She stood, stuggling about as much as the beast had. "Back," she said forcefully. "Don't you step closer!" The creature stopped still, as if turned to stone, and then layed back down again, waiting for a command. She had no idea if it had understood her or if it was merely reacting to her voice. "Go back to your corner," she commanded of it. She nodded towards the corner of the room. "Over there. Stay with your blanket." Instead of standing up, the creature started belly crawling backwards until it reached it's blanket, then nudged itself so that its front paw was under the blanket. It continued staring at Petunia the whole time, and was now giving her the puppy eyes, awaiting positive response.

She turned to her baby boy, who was getting to the end of his bottle despite the exchange having only occured over maybe 3 minutes. He hadn't raised a fuss at all, thank goodness. She had to get them out of this room, away from the mangy mutt. Would it follow her? She glared at it and walked to the door, nose up in the air. "Stay," she said, maybe a bit too forcefully. She opened the door, crossed the threshold, and shut the door. Listening carefully, she could not hear the beast's claws on the door, so she walked to the livingroom and sat down. Only then did she let her fear overcome her.

Her pounding heart blocked her hearing, and Petunia was sure that her Duddykins could hear it from where she was cradeling him against her breast securely. Her skin felt cold, and she broke out in shivers and goosebumps, and it felt like acid was running through her arms and feet. She tried to control her ragged breaths, and her eyes fluttered to contain her tears. She had married Vernon to get away from all that nonsense of her sister's world. She had moved far away to isolate herself from pointed hats and toads and flying broomsticks. She had tried everything in her nature to run away from all that... abnormality! Yet it continued to pester her, once with her perfect sister, and now again with her beast of a son! Petunia doubted it was even her son, at least biologically. What human could birth a being that could turn into a mutt? No, it must be something that Lily had created, along with her freakshow of a husband, that she had just adopted like a son. Much like a crazy cat lady. Yes.

Petunia felt herself calming down at the reassuring thought. She wasn't related to that thing, it was just a pet that Lily had adopted. That was something that those freaks would do. She kissed the top of Dudley's head. The beast was not human, and so would not sleep in her baby's room. She didn't want it in the kitchen, nor where it would shed it's fur and urinate everywhere. Her eyes drifted... Yes. The cupboard was perfect. Put some newspapers and a bowl of water in there, and they wouldn't have to look at it or smell it, or even know it was there. It was intellegent enough to throw the newspaper away and get Vernon's day old newspaper on it's own, so she didn't need to do that. She would have to regulate it's water, since she didn't want it running up the bill or peeing too much. Food would depend on how well it acted. Her eyes narrowed. As it grew older, it would be allowed to do tricks, like mowing the yard, weeding the garden, painting the fence. How much food would depend on how well he did.

She would talk to her husband when he returned home in a few hours. She would have to keep him from throwing the bastard thing out, since the freaks thought that she and the blasted mutt were related and Dursleys couldn't contact them. She knew they were watching, though. They always knew. Petunia stood up, rocking Dudley slightly, a determined look on her face. She would not allow this mongerel to dirty up her home. It was up to her, as the woman of the house, to keep everything in order and normal, and by Jove she would do it.

No matter how unnatural her "nephew" was.


	2. Chapter 2

Night was quiet at Private Drive. Harry liked it. He was allowed to work in the garden at night, with no small about of begging and extra chores from Aunt Petunia to convince her otherwise. He liked the silence of Private Drive, but he also liked how alive it was, expecially in summer. The grass was green and lush and bouncey, expecially after he cut it. The smell from the flowers was better than any detergent his Aunt could find, and the flowers were all very vibrant. He could hear tiny creatures scurry in the bushes around him as they tried to find food, and nocturnal predators watching for their mistakes. Most of all, he liked the moon. He leaned back from his kneeling position and smiled up at the half-moon. It bathed the entire area in faux-light, and it made him feel as if he had just taken a shower and had a good nights rest and a nice, filling meal for the first time in what felt like forever. The moon felt like what he imagined a mother's love. Not like Aunt Petunia's love towards Dudley, but like the little girls in the street with their mums in London, guiding them with a gentle touch and smiling at them with every opportunity. Aunt Petunia was more like a flighty hummingbird.

Harry sighed, and bent forward again. He was weeding out the garden tonight. It was hard work, and made his back, shoulders, elbows, and knees ache, but it was worth it. If he did a really good job, Aunt Petunia would give him a slice of bread with cheese and jam on it. He licked his lips, feeling his mouth water just thinking about it. He shook himself out of his food-induced haze and kept working. Idle hands were the devil's playground after all.

All the while the moon watched, and it was burning.

Harry was watching Aunt Petunia. This wasn't something that was unusual. He often watched his caretakers. This time was different.

His aunt was moving around. Not unusual. But she was almost pacing, but keeping busy so it didn't seem like she was pacing. She had an apron on, and mittens, and she was moving back and forth from the table to the stove, doing idle things. She would move a plate to the counter, then move a cup containing silverware, then move back to the counter and take the plate back to the table, then add a dash of salt to the pot bubbling on the stove, then scowl and move the silverware to the counter under the overhead counters, then she would move the toaster from one end of the counter to the other, then she would take a stack of plates to the table and replace the ones that were already there.

Harry blinked. His Aunt Petunia was nervous. He tilted his head. Nervous about what? What could his aunt nervous about? His head tilted the other way. Petunia was always nervous about other people's opinion of her. She always wanted to make a good impression. She wanted to be the most prim, the most proper, the most perfect. She didn't want other people to think bad of her, or think she was less than perfect. Which is why the Dursleys hid him, Harry, away. Because he was weird. He tilted his head the other way, his eyes sad. Did his Aunt think that someone was going to think bad of her? His Aunt was perfect. She never let him miss a meal, or get up late, or skip out on any of his responsibilties. She always made sure the neighbors were okay, and made sure Uncle Vernon got his morning paper and a kiss on the cheek, and always made sure that Dudley's scratches and bruises were healed with magical mum kisses. Aunt Petunia was the best aunt ever. She didn't get to be sad.

Harry breathed in and out, watching his aunt. He needed to be calm for what he was going to do. He had to wait. Finally, Aunt Petunia sat down in a kitchen chair with a huff, her mittens covering her face. Harry quietly plodded towards her. When he reached her chair, he tugged very lightly on the short sleeve of her dress, keeping his eyes down on her opposite shoulder. Petunia looked at him.

"What do you want?" She said harshly. He didn't let it hurt him. She was scared, after all.

"You'll do perfect, Auntie Petunia," He said quietly. She gave him a bewildered stare.

"What?" Harry cleared his throat and said more clearly:

"What you're nervous about. You're worried it won't be enough, but it will. You always make everything perfect, you never settle for anything less. It's just who you are." Harry stopped himself there, afraid to talk much more. He lowered his eyes and bit his lip. Did he talk too much? He didn't want her to overlook his words, they were true after all, and when people talked too much other people tended to tune them out. Petunia cleared her throat and sat up straighter.

"Of course I do, silly mongerel," she said, the burn in her voice not as concentrated. "I settle for nothing less. I have no reason to worry or be nervous." She seemed to be peptalking to herself, and repeated those words under her breath. "I will not settle for anything less than perfect. Everything is perfect. Settle for nothing less." She nodded and stood, glaring down at Harry. "Speaking of less," she hissed. "What are you doing out of your cupboard? Clean up and stay there. Vernon is bringing important business guests and you will not be tolerated." Harry nodded, happy to have his aunt back to the way she was. Even if it hurt him a little.

Harry watched his teacher. Class was not to begin for another 10 minutes, but he did not have any friends besides Dudley, and Dudley only wanted to play games that ended with Harry being hurt. Harry had seen the Principal, Mr. Briggsby, talking with the teacher. He had seemed mad. He was pointing at Ms. Borne in a way that meant she was in trouble. He knew that very well, but he did not know that normal people got the finger too. She must be in big trouble. Finally, with one last huff, Mr. Briggsby had left, and Ms. Borne was left with her head in her hands, leaning sadly against the teacher's desk.

It reminded him so much of his Aunt Petunia. Ms. Borne was very lenient with them, and let the class color and talk all they wanted. Harry did not like it. He was used to learning. Aunt Petunia was always teaching him a new dish, new numbers, new words, new ways to sweep and mop the floor, how to detect things that other people never noticed. Maybe Mr. Briggsby had noticed the class's inactivity, and had scolded the teacher. Was this what Aunt Petunia was scared of? This scolding, that left his teacher looking so defeated. He bit his lip. He had helped his Aunt when she needed it, and Ms. Borne was much kinder than Aunt Petunia. He stepped in the room, and walked closer to the woman. She looked up as he was approaching and smiled at him kindly.

"Hello Mr. Potter."

He bowed his head, blushing. "Hello, Ms Borne." Her smile widened at the cute boy.

"What did you need, dear?" She asked. Harry was aways so quiet and isolated than the rest of the class. His eyes seemed much older than they were, and watched everything. It creeped her out a bit, but she would never outst a child because of her personal feelings. Harry stood up a little straighter and breathed deeply.

"Was Mr. Briggsby asking you to be stricter during classes?" He asked boldly. Ms. Borne blinked.

"I- What?" Harry deflated a little.

"Mr. Briggsby. I saw him in here scolding you a minute ago. I thought it was because you don't teach us anything in class. You only let us color and talk." He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "At home, Aunt Petunia is always teaching me new things." His voice got quieter, and his gaze flickered between her chin and her shoes. He looked down to his own shoes when he heard her laugh at him.

"Oh, Harry, dear," she said kindly. To his ears it sounded like what stepping in honey felt like. "That is what he was talking about, yes. He is going to send in another teacher to watch me oversee the class." She stepped closer, ruffling his hair. "You are very smart, and I'm glad that you're getting the boost in your education that your aunt feels you need. But I don't need a child like you to help me teach my class." The way she said the words were affectionate, and he felt that she truely meant them. It felt like she was screwing nails to the bottom of his jaw. "Speaking of, why don't you sit down? The rest of the kids are going to be coming in soon from recess." Harry turned and sat in his seat. The room was at a slight slant, and the seat he had claimed his gave him a way to see everyone in the class.

Soon the kids did come in, and after them came a stern looking woman. The Watcher sat in the corner, and Ms. Borne did not introduce her, but she was not the only one watching. Harry was watching both of them. He watched how Ms. Borne did as she usually did, and every time the Watcher wrote something down he watched her. She was expressionless, but he watched how she reacted with Ms. Borne. She did not write when Ms. Borne was aiding a student or looking at what a child was showing off, but her eyes tensed when Ms. Borne spoke with her hurting honey voice, or pat a child on the head that made them look down, or said something that seemed to make them shut their mouths with a click.

After three days, Ms. Borne did not come back. The Watcher introduced herself as Mrs. Lund. Mrs. Lund was a different teacher than Ms. Borne, and made them learn letters and numbers and write with smooth lines and stay in the lines when coloring and what certain shapes where what and how lines affected shapes. Many of the students complained, talking loudly about how awesome Ms. Borne was. None of them were louder than Dudley. Some of the students, however, were quiet. The ones with nails screwed into the bottom on their jaws. The girl at the back who no longer liked the color blue, because it was for boys. The boy who didn't like to draw anymore. Harry watched all of them, and his heart hurt.


	3. Chapter 3

At the front of the nearly empty classroom stood two students and a teacher. Dudley was wailing pitifully about how the other student, a poor boy by the name of Timothy, had stolen his jacket. Timothy, on the other hand, was meekly trying to defend himself. Harry was at the back of the room, watching carefully. Timothy had obviously not stolen the jacket, as he was wearing his own, but it was cold and Harry knew for certain that Dudley had left his jacket at home, claiming that he could take the cold like a man.

Dudley was making a pretty convincing case, if annoying the teacher to the breaking point was a "convincing case". Finally the teacher told Timothy to give Dudley the jacket he was wearing in compesence for the theft. Harry waited until the two left for recess to approach the teacher.

"Sir?" He said strongly. The teacher, Mr. Jones-Smith, looked up and smiled at him.

"Hullo, Mr. Potter," he greeted. "Your cousin has quite a set of lungs on him. He should join the choir." Harry didn't find the humor in the joke.

"Timothy didn't steal Dudley's jacket." Mr. Jones-Smith sighed.

"I know." Harry felt something in his gut burn and clenched his hands into fists. The teacher recognised his angry expression and tried to defend himself. "I know that your cousin was wrong. Timothy did not take Dudley's jacket as Mr. Dursley never came in with a jacket. However, you cousin is very stubborn. If I didn't do something, we'd have been in this room for hours until Dudley finally got tired and left. By that point, I would be behind on my work, classes would be over, and everyone would have been starving." The teachers words were not exagerated. He had seen Dudley stubbornly refuse eating his vegetables until everyone in the Dursley house was nearly starving and it was the next meal time already, and then Harry watched as his cousin was praised for it. It was impressive. His head tilted. He would not have minded staying firm for hours, but he didn't think he could have kept Timothy from eating or going to class. He also knew that there were many assignments that just his class alone did. Mr. Jones-Smith would need a lot of time to get it all done and marked to give back to his students. His head tilted the other way. On the other hand, Harry thought there could have been another way to deal with the problem instead of giving Dudley Timothy's jacket. However, he didn't get the final say in the matter; Mr. Jones-Smith did. Harry put on his jacket and bag and left for recess without a word.

Mr. Jones-Smith slumped at his desk, stretching his neck. Mr. Dursley was about as much of a handful as five spoiled children combined, but his cousin was something else entirely. Something about that child was unsettling. At such a young age, he was indignant on somebody else's behalf, when many children were still getting over their self-centered mindset they had growing up. He sighed, pulling a stack of papers forwards. Hopefully the child knew better than to start fights at school, if that angry determined look was going to lead to anything.

Finding Timothy in the school yard wasn't all that hard. The boy was huddling as close to a square machine as he dared without getting close enough to the metal to burn him. Harry didn't think it was that cold, but the boy's threadbare clothes certainly wouldn't provide as much protection as Dudley's hand-me-down clothes. Harry approached. Timothy peered carefully at him through his curly bangs as Harry crouched next to the other boy. They stared at eachother, Harry chewing the inside of his cheek while he thought about what to say.

"I can get your jacket back, if you want," he offered finally. Timothy shook his head.

"No." Harry chewed around some more. Timothy looked scared for a second and said "I-I don't want you to get in trouble." He quieted to a whisper. "With-with your aunt and uncle, that is." Harry stared more, still. Slowly his head tilted. He didn't know how he knew, but.. Timothy was scared for some reason. He tilted. Scared of him? Why would Timothy be scared of Harry? He tilted again. He couldn't think of a time when Harry had even interacted with Timmy at all, much less left a less than stellar impression. Scared of other people, then? Harry could understand that. He still remembered the way that Ms. Borne treated them, and Mr. Jones-Smith was not leaving a good taste either. That would only leave distrust in teachers though, as what Harry was starting to feel. So what happened with the teachers had happened with other people. Kids, probably. He straightened. There wasn't anything Harry could do about it now. Timothy wouldn't accept his own jacket back for fear of retailiation. So what could Harry do? The thought of leaving Timothy there to his own devices made Harry feel sick and his ears burn, so what to do? He felt his neck getting warm and glanced at the sleeves of his own jacket he was wearing. He blinked. That would work.

As Harry started shrugging off his jacket, Timothy caught on to his plan and started to object. "N-no, please, really. You don't have to give me your jacket!" He ducked his head as Harry threw the jacket around his shoulders. "Won't your aunt and uncle be angry?" He worried weakly. Harry shook his head as he grabbed the poor boys wrist and pulled it through the sleeve.

"They won't care," he smiled. "If anything, they'll be happy. I'm learning how to fend off the cold without need of clothes."

"But, won't you be cold?" Harry shook his head, buttoning up the jacket. He smiled and tugged on the bottom of the jacket, straightening it out. The sleeves were a little long, but otherwise the old jacket fit pretty good.

"It's not cold to me," Harry said. "Is it cold to you now?" Timothy shook his head, looking at the dirt beneath them.

"Thank you," he said. Harry smiled and squeezed his hand through the sleeve.

"Do you want to play til the end of recess?"

"I don't really like to play games," Timothy said. "I usually just watch the others." Harry sat down next to him.

"I do the same thing," Harry said. "I think it's a good way to spend time." Timothy stared at him, but after Harry tugged on his sleeve he slowly sat down. They stayed like that, leaning against eachother and talking quietly, watching the other children play and expend their energy, until the end of recess.

Harry liked it. He knew that the two of them weren't friends, but there was a warm bond between the two of them that wasn't between him and the other children. He wondered what had happened to cause the bond. Giving Timothy the jacket? Sitting with him when no one else would? Coming to help in the first place? He watched everyone carefully. Everyone seemed happy, and even Dudley was gloating to his slowly forming gang about taking Timmy's jacket. It wasn't a good way of bonding, but it was. Every child on the playground had someone to play with. Did they have the same bond as Timothy and him?

Warmth from no where felt like it was being poured on him from above, and he tilted his head back to feel it. There was nothing tangible there, but it certainly felt like it. He'd only felt warm water when he was washing dishes, but this was like it was thicker, between water and syrup. It was the most lovely feeling he had ever felt. It was even better than when he made his Aunt happy.

He felt Timothy look at him when he sighed and looked back. Harry thought about saying something but instead grinned, squeezing Timothy's hand gently. Tim smiled and squeezed back. Harry sighed and leaned his head on his knees, closing his eyes.

Yes, he was very happy.


End file.
